


Just Like the Movies

by anotherdoor



Category: The Magicians (TV)
Genre: Alternate Timelines, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Casual Sex, Drinking Games, Embarrassment, Facials, First Time, Fluff and Smut, Getting Together, Hook-Up, Humor, Implied/Referenced Dubious Consent, Light Dom/sub, M/M, Multiple Orgasms, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Season 1
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-25
Updated: 2019-06-25
Packaged: 2020-05-19 06:32:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,493
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19351417
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anotherdoor/pseuds/anotherdoor
Summary: A night of drinking games with Margo and Eliot leads Quentin to reveal an embarrassing story.





	Just Like the Movies

**Author's Note:**

> This can be read as an AU to season 1 or one of the alternate timelines. This is set early on, before Quentin has any romantic relationship with Alice.

It’s a quiet evening in the Cottage. Quentin is sitting on the floor of the living room, knees tucked into his chest, at a pleasantly giggly level of drunk after several rounds of drinking games with Margo and Eliot. They have been interrogating him for the past hour, and he should be embarrassed at the stories they’ve weaseled out of him, but mostly he just feels warm and good. It’s incredible to him that two such confident and beautiful people are interested in being his friend, but if fucking _magic_ is real, anything is possible. He supposes he provides some entertainment for them, as evidenced by their delight at needling and flustering him. The current game has them asking him questions about who he was before Brakebills, and he’s only allowed one pass on an answer before he has to respond honestly to the follow-up. He’s not sure why he’s agreed to the rules when he’s the only one obligated to follow them--maybe he’s a little too eager for their attention.

“Quentin is definitely that guy at a party who tries to impress girls with deep nerd knowledge and can’t take a hint when they don’t give a shit,” Margo is saying in response to a rather embarrassing retelling of one of the last undergrad parties he had attended. 

“I think it’s cute he has no game,” Eliot says with a slight quirk in his mouth. His long form is perched elegantly on the couch, Margo’s legs curled in his lap. 

“You’ve clearly never been one of those girls at a party,” Margo responds, poking Eliot with her foot. “It’s not a good look, Quentin,” she states. “But it’s okay. We like you anyway.”

He sucks in a breath. Their teasing has been relentless tonight. “Gee, thanks.”

“Just be better,” she says sharply.

“Okay,” he replies, swallowing. 

She hums, twirling her hair. “So, what about high school?” she needles. “You go to any parties then? You strike me as the type of guy who didn’t drink until undergrad.”

A memory of the only high school party he had attended burns in his mind. God, what a disaster. He’s not prepared to revisit that catastrophe anytime soon. “Pass,” he says.

“Alright, fine,” Margo says, arching a brow and flashing a dangerous grin. “Most embarrassing sexual encounter, then.”

Quentin feels his face go hot at the question and he sputters, “Uh, well…”

“You’re cruel,” Eliot says, patting her thigh. “Look how red he is, we’ve been teasing him too much.” He appraises Quentin with a devilish smile. “Something immediately came to mind, though, didn’t it?” 

Fuck. It's true, the images are already racing to the forefront of his mind despite his attempts to shove them down. “Yeah, it’s, uh, not a… great memory.” Concern crosses Eliot’s face and he quickly amends, “I mean, it was, just… really, um, embarrassing… not, like. Um.” He shakes his head and an awkward laugh tumbles out. 

“Aw, this is painful,” Margo says with a fake pout.

“Maybe we should take pity on him,” Eliot adds, though the look he’s giving him indicates he intends no such thing. 

“No,” Quentin says, shaking his head again. “Um, no. I can—I can follow the rules.” He tucks his hair behind his ear. “God. Um. Okay.”

“Anytime,” Eliot says, amusement evident in his tone.

He takes a steadying breath. They are going to roast him for this one, but he feels light and giddy, and the story _is_ funny. He’s sure Eliot and Margo have heard (and probably done) things far less tame, right? It was a long time ago. He can move on. “It’s not that exciting, but it’s… I’ve never told anyone about this. Not even Julia. So.”

“I’m riveted,” Eliot says. Quentin can’t look at either of them, trying to gain enough composure to actually expose himself like this.

“Okay.” He takes another breath. He can’t believe he’s going to do this. “Okay. Um, it was senior year of high school, and I, um, I gave someone a blow job in a movie theater.” The words tumble out in a rush. “But we were, like, not subtle at all, people definitely knew even though the theater was practically empty. He was into it—it was his idea, obviously, that’s not really my… anyway, I was super nervous and I—I pulled off right as the usher was coming over to kick us out, but he was past the point of no return, I guess, and he ended up… he, um...” He struggles to say the words.

“No,” he hears Margo gasp.

“Yeah. All over me and my clothes and the seat in front of us, a little bit. Right in front of the usher, too. So I had to walk out through the hall covered in, um, you know. Luckily it was during the movie so there weren’t really people around, and then I had to try to clean up with a water bottle outside.” He buries his hands in his head, the shame flooding back. “God. Yeah. And neither of us could drive, so...” He groans and presses on, “I had to call my dad to pick us up early. We told him we got caught smuggling food, but he knew, he definitely knew. It was the most awkward car ride of my life. And the guy broke up with me the next day. So.” He lets out a woosh of breath. “Yeah. That’s it.”

He looks up and sees Margo silently shaking with laughter. Eliot’s eyes are wide in horror, his hand over his mouth, shaking his head.

“Christ,” Margo wheezes, clutching her stomach. He’s never seen her like this. “Your fucking—” she struggles to regain herself enough to speak, “your fucking dad drove you home while you were covered in come?”

He nods, burying his hands in his face again and giggling through his embarrassment. "I mean, I tried to clean up?"

“I can’t… I can’t process this,” Eliot says with a laugh, still shaking his head, “In front of the _usher?_ ”

That sets them all off harder, and for a few moments, nobody can speak through their laughter. Eventually Margo regains herself enough to pour him another drink. “Damn, Coldwater, you win. That’s the story of the night.”

“Thank you,” he says, clearing his throat. “I’m glad my shame could entertain.” It feels kinda cathartic, actually, to tell this story. He’s sure his face is bright red. 

“I, for one, am impressed,” Eliot says after a beat, straightening up. “I wouldn’t have expected it from you. You don’t really strike me as the sex in public type.”

“Well, I’m certainly not anymore,” he says into his drink.

Margo snorts. “You just need a better experience, it was a solid effort. Although there are some serious consent issues doing that shit in front of random people.”

He raises his eyebrows. “Believe me, I’ve had plenty of time to think of everything fucked up about the whole thing.” 

“That poor usher…”

He hears Eliot take a breath and then ask, “But your dad was okay with it?”

Quentin sputters out an incredulous laugh. “God, no, what?! N—No. He couldn’t look me in the eye for like a week after. And then he gave me some stilted speech about boundaries and, um. Yeah. No.” After a moment he realizes that might not be what Eliot meant. “Oh, you mean having a boyfriend? We’ve never really talked about it. Not that I’ve dated very many people, but their gender was always kind of a non-issue? I don’t know if he has a problem with it, he’s never said anything.”

Eliot hums and doesn’t say anything else, a guarded expression on his face. Quentin doesn’t press, but he’s curious what that expression means. He belatedly realizes that he has, effectively, just come out to them both, in the roundabout way he always does where he shares a story and lets others fill in the blanks. 

“On that note…” Margo says, swinging her legs off of Eliot’s lap. “I don’t think that story can be topped, so probably best we call it a night.”

“Come on, guys,” Quentin whines, sinking further into the floor. “We can’t end on that. Now I’m going to be thinking about it all night.”

Eliot eyes him with a teasing grin. “You had me at ‘come on guys,’” he says. “Now that I know your intimate experience with that sort of thing.”

“Shut up!” Quentin laughs, face burning.

Eliot waves a hand. “I get it. Alright, how can we distract you from reliving this very traumatic and extremely hilarious experience?” He leans forward as he says it, dark eyes sweeping down Quentin’s body with a new kind of intensity. 

“Um,” Quentin says, mouth suddenly dry. 

“Well,” Margo says, putting her hands beside her on the couch. “I’m tired. El, you’re good at distractions, seems like you’ve got this covered.” They share a look that Quentin can’t interpret. “So I’ll see you boys in the morning.” She pushes herself up and steps over Quentin toward the stairs.

“You’re not subtle,” Eliot calls after her.

“Not trying to be!” she calls back, already nearly out of the room. 

“Sorry about her,” Eliot says, looking oddly nervous. Quentin furrows his brow and then… Oh. His realization must show on his face because Eliot raises his eyebrows in acknowledgement.

“Um," Quentin says eloquently. 

Eliot sinks down off the couch and onto the floor in front of him, their thighs just barely touching. He pours himself another drink, settling in and fixing Quentin with a heated look that makes him feel like he might spontaneously combust. “What kind of distraction are you looking for, exactly?”

There’s nothing to explain the next words that fall out of his mouth, except perhaps that he’s already embarrassed himself past the point of inhibition. “Well, I don’t think a blow job story that ends with me getting dumped really shows my skills in the best light, so…”

Eliot’s mouth goes wide in shock and he lets out a laugh. A flush of pink graces his cheeks, but it could be the alcohol. “Wow, what a come on,” he says, leaning forward onto his knees. Quentin’s heart pounds in his chest. “Well, if you’re looking to redeem yourself…” 

The weight of Eliot's gaze makes him falter and he struggles to come up with a response. Fuck, the mood has shifted quickly. A small grin tugs at Eliot's lips as he presses into Quentin's space.

"I, um." He burns hot from the shame of being teased all night, of reliving such an embarrassing memory, of the intensity of Eliot's attention. It's so much, he's slightly crazed with it.

Eliot takes pity, gently wrapping a hand around his neck as he leans forward, his movements achingly slow and intentional. Quentin's breath catches and a whine slips out as Eliot's lips press against his own, a soft brush at first, and then more deeply as he tastes Quentin's mouth open with his tongue. Quentin melts into it, skin buzzing everywhere Eliot is near. His legs fall open and Eliot shifts forward, Quentin's hands grazing up his sides to drag him in. The position is awkward, but Eliot groans into his mouth, so he must be doing something right. 

An intrusive thought sneaks into his brain and Quentin breaks away. “Fuck, wait.” Eliot pulls back, looking confused and a little dejected. “No, it’s, um. It’s just, uh.” And now he feels more like himself. “I—I’ve thought about, um, doing that. But I don’t know if… you know, now there’s an association with, um...”

He sees understanding dawn in Eliot’s eyes and a slow smile spreads across his lips. “I see.” He runs a finger down Quentin’s chest. “So you do want to hook up, but you don’t want the memory to be forever tainted with your horrifying jizz story.”

Quentin swallows. “Yeah.”

Eliot hums. “But wouldn’t it be nice give it some pleasant associations?”

Quentin bites his lips and shakes his head. “Now I’m going to be thinking about it, like, a lot more often.”

Eliot nods and sits back on his heels. “Of course, I understand. People think about me a lot. Well.” He makes to stand up. “I guess that’s goodnight, then.”

Quentin rolls his eyes and reaches out to drag him back down. Eliot goes willingly, letting himself be pulled back into the space between Quentin's legs. Quentin smiles up shyly at him and mumbles, “I guess—I guess I can get over it.”

Eliot's breath is hot against Quentin's cheek as he presses a kiss to the side of his mouth. "Then shall we go upstairs so you can show off these alleged skills?"

A shudder ripples through him and he bites his lip. God, why is he always like this, reacting so strongly to any elicit provocation? Eliot’s apparent delight at this response is the only thing steeling his nerves and he nods, allowing himself to be led up to Eliot’s bedroom. It’s familiar, the way he tugs him by the wrist, and Quentin is helpless to do anything but follow.

When they reach the door, Eliot takes a moment to look at him, assessing. Quentin’s not sure what he’s looking for, but he takes advantage of the pause to surge up to capture Eliot’s lips. It’s clumsy, but Eliot smiles into it, hand reaching for the doorknob and they tumble inside. 

Eliot helps him rid him of his clothes as he pushes Quentin toward the bed, his knees hitting the mattress so he falls onto it with a small bounce. The air is cool against his flushed skin, naked except for his briefs. 

“Holy shit, Coldwater,” Eliot says, eyes sweeping over him with salacious hunger that sets Quentin’s skin alight. “You’re, like, hot."

Quentin lets out a nervous laugh, raw and exposed, how the fuck is he supposed to respond to that? 

Eliot’s fingers deftly unbutton his vest as he walks toward the bed, each step slow and intentional. It’s so much, the attention, the fact that Eliot wants him, it's dizzying. “I mean, I knew you were hot, but…” He gestures toward Quentin’s everything and the praise shoots straight to his dick. Eliot reaches the edge of the bed and reaches down, cupping Quentin’s head in his hand and dragging his thumb down his neck. “Tell me what you want.”

“I thought that was decided,” Quentin mutters, grabbing him by the belt and working to undo the clasp. Eliot’s hand brushes his hair and Quentin can’t help leaning into the touch as he works Eliot’s cock free.

Oh _shit_. Oh goddamn fucking—Eliot’s huge. It’s… holy shit.

“Um, wow,” he says reverently, taking it in his hand and stroking softly.

Eliot lets out a light laugh, but he doesn’t say anything, what is there to say? He must know. _God_. This… Quentin’s overwhelmed. He’s never blown anybody this big before, but his hunger to get his mouth on him outweighs the nervousness that this may not be his best performance. 

“How do you want me?” Eliot asks, voice hoarse. It takes Quentin a second to realize what he’s asking. 

“The, um, the bed.” 

Eliot pulls off his the rest of his clothes and surges forward to kiss him, pushing him back onto the mattress. “Your thighs, Jesus Christ,” he murmurs, trailing a hand down them to emphasize his point. He crawls on top of him, body hot and heavy, pulling him into a messy kiss. An image of Eliot fucking him flashes in his mind and he whimpers, _fuck_ , he wants—

First things first. He rolls them both over and presses a kiss at the base of Eliot’s neck, eliciting an encouraging groan, before making his way down his torso and settling himself at the foot of the bed. Eliot’s cock is hard and flushed in front of him. He wraps a hand around the base and strokes up, taking the head in his mouth and drawing his tongue down the slit. The heady, familiar taste makes him groan and he licks his way down the shaft.

“Can you, um,” he starts, and Eliot gets the message, bending his knees to give him better access. He draws one of his balls into his mouth, sucking gently, and pushes his nose against Eliot's perineum while slowly jerking him with his hand. He's decent at this, knows what most guys like, but his hunger to just suck Eliot down as hard as he can stand eventually weighs out over refined technique.

As he takes him deeper, he closes his eyes and sighs, feeling fuzzy. He loves this, the heavy weight in his mouth, the soft skin on his tongue, the way he’s able to tune out everything else. Eliot keeps murmuring praise, his hand gently raking through Quentin’s hair, and he groans around his cock.

When the sounds coming out of Eliot’s mouth get more frantic, Quentin takes him as deeply as he can. He’s practically gagging, but the low moan he earns is worth it. Eliot's body starts to tense and his breath becomes ragged. Quentin pulls off, taking the shaft in his hand and jerking it with a tight and fast grip. 

Eliot's gaze is searing and he lets out an obscene groan as he comes all over Quentin's face. 

He peers up at Eliot, smiling and a little shy, knowing what he must look like. It wasn't planned, he usually swallowed, but maybe the story from earlier had given him ideas. Eliot looks a little speechless as he takes Quentin in with a heavy gaze.

“Fuck,” he breathes, and then reaches to pull him up for a sloppy kiss. It’s languid and dirty, and Quentin is so keyed up he’s panting to be touched. Eliot pulls back and presses a thumb against Quentin’s cheek, smearing the come. “Let’s get you cleaned up, and then you can tell me what you need.”

Quentin gives a shaky nod as Eliot reaches into his nightstand for a baby wipe to clean off his face. His touch is gentle, and Quentin aches with need. Eliot reaches out a hand and pulls him in for a kiss, this time with more focused intent. Quentin whimpers, blood running hot. 

“What do you want?” Eliot asks, tracing a warm hand down his arm. 

“I want...” he whines, needy and too eager, unable to quite get the words out. 

“Yes?” Eliot prompts.

“Your fingers,” he manages. “Um, like—”

Eliot’s mouth curls up into a grin. “You want me to finger you,” he states in a low and sultry voice. Quentin can only nod, breath shaky. “That can definitely be arranged.”

He sighs, allowing himself to be manhandled down onto his back, spread out. Eliot keeps kissing him and he’s too far gone to be embarrassed at the needy little noises he breathes into Eliot’s mouth. A hand grabs onto his cock, tight and hot, and his hips shift toward the touch. 

“Don’t, just…” Quentin starts, pushing his hand away. “I’ll come if you do that.”

Eliot hums, almost a groan. “Okay.” He reaches into the bedside table for lube. “I’m going to do a spell, okay? It’s going to feel weird but you'll be fine.”

“A spell for what?” 

Eliot grins, brushing a finger across his hole. “It’ll just clean things up a bit,” he explains. “I promise, it’s more pleasant than an enema.” 

“Jesus,” Quentin mutters. “Okay.” 

His hands gesture through an unfamiliar tut and Quentin stares, transfixed by the movements of Eliot's long fingers.

"Okay?" Eliot asks, already grabbing the lube. 

"Mmm," Quentin replies, hot with anticipation. He'd been so distracted by Eliot's hands he'd barely felt the spell. 

His whole body thrums at the gentle, teasing press of Eliot's finger. It's been so fucking long since somebody has done this to him, he's desperate for it. As Eliot works his way inside, Quentin sinks into it with a sigh, losing himself to the sensation. Eliot knows exactly what he is doing, and it’s not long before Quentin is leaking against his stomach.

“You love this,” Eliot murmurs, a little reverent. “I bet you love to be fucked.”

 _God,_ it's too much to even think about, how Eliot's massive cock would feel pounding into him, how utterly he could wreck him. He whimpers, starting to lose focus of anything but feeling. Eliot crooks his finger just so and Quentin convulses with a gasp.

“You can come like this, yeah?” Eliot asks, but Quentin is too far gone to manage a coherent response. He’s shaking, groaning, god, the sensation is so _much._ His orgasm hits and he feels it everywhere, heat radiating throughout his entire body. (Is this what women feel like every time?) His mind goes hazy, cloudy, but he's still hard and Eliot is unrelenting.

“You can come again,” he’s saying, pressing his thumb against Quentin’s perineum as his fingers keep fucking in and out. “Fuck, you take this so well."

He loses track of time, blissed out, his body spasming and humming with energy as his second and then third orgasms hit. He’s leaking all over himself. 

“Please,” he chokes out. “El, it’s too—I…” He groans. “I need—”

“This?” Eliot asks, taking Quentin’s dick in his hand and stroking up fast. Yes, _yes,_ fuck— “You wanna make a mess of yourself again?"  

He lets out a desperate moan, thrusting up into Eliot’s hand and then he goes white hot, his mind deliriously blank as orgasm overtakes him. It takes him a moment to come back to himself and loosely registers Eliot cleaning them up. Time feels hazy, he always goes so pliant after prostate orgasms. Sometimes he thinks it’s the only thing that can make him relax. 

"Feeling good?" Eliot asks with a confident smirk.

Quentin is too far gone to be self-conscious and responds with a happy, “Mmhm.” Eliot leans over to kiss him, tangling their fingers together. He loses track of how long they stay entwined like that, but Eliot eventually pulls away and lies down next to him. 

“Well. This has been an eye-opening experience,” he says. “Given me a lot of new information to consider." He pauses. "You like to be tied up?”

 _God_. “I can’t even think about that right now,” he answers, voice hoarse. “But… yes.”

“What about—”

“ _Eliot_ ,” he whines. “Ask me later.”

“Oh, I will definitely be asking you later.” 

Even the implications of ‘later’ are too much to process at the moment. There are no thoughts in his brain at all really, he exists in contented afterglow. 

"Do you want to sleep here tonight?" Eliot asks after an indeterminate period of time. "You seem kind of incapable of movement at the moment."

Some part of him registers that he's being teased and that perhaps the question ought to give him anxiety, but all he responds is, "Yeah."

"Alright," Eliot answers easily. "I'm going to wash up. You should too, if you can manage it." 

He winks as he gets up, and Quentin knows he should brush his teeth at the very least. He manages to drag himself out of bed and toward his own bathroom across the hall, pulling on one of Eliot's ostentatious silk robes hanging near the door without really thinking about it. (If he had, he would have realized nudity would probably be less embarrassing if he did run into anyone.)

When he returns, Eliot is already in bed, and the look he's giving him is as intense as it is inscrutable. 

"What?" he asks, yawning. 

"You, um," Eliot starts, his voice rough. "You're wearing my robe."

"Oh," Quentin says, feeling himself blush. "Sorry, it was right by the door, I, uh, didn't really—"

"It looks good on you." There's something uncharacteristically raw and earnest in Eliot's tone.

"Oh," he repeats. He pulls it off somewhat sheepishly, hanging it on its hook before crawling back into bed. Some of his nerves have returned, but before his mind can start spiraling, Eliot pulls him into a kiss. It settles him, the heat of Eliot's body against him, the teasing press of his tongue and the soft brush of his hand on his neck. 

Before it can get too heated, Eliot pulls back, eliciting a whine from Quentin.

"Hate to be a mood-killer, but we have class tomorrow," he says.

Fuck. Right. He was supposed to study tonight, but that plan had gone out the window about the moment he had agreed to a drink.

"I know," Eliot agrees, reading Quentin's dismay.

"Fine," Quentin grumbles, settling into the bed to make himself comfortable.

"You're like a disgruntled house cat," he says with a smile.

"I'd hope you wouldn't fuck a house cat," he mutters into the blanket.

Eliot laughs. "No, but they make good sleeping companions." Quentin wonders when Eliot ever would have had a cat, but he doesn't ask. "Cats are excellent little spoons," he says, pulling Quentin into his chest.

He knew that Eliot was a cuddler from the way he was always draped over Margo, and it wasn't like he shied away from physical affection with Quentin, either. Somehow, this is still a surprise. It’s not unwelcome, Quentin always gets clingy after sex (shocking, he knows). Eliot’s embrace is grounding, and it's not long before he falls into a comfortable sleep.

* * *

Eliot wakes up to the sound of a groan and the warm press of a body at his side. He rolls over and peeks, bleary-eyed, at Quentin, who currently has his face buried in his hands. 

“Morning,” Eliot says, smiling.

Quentin peers through his fingers to look at him with a sheepish grin. “Hi,” he says, shy and so fucking adorable Eliot feels a little lightheaded.

“Not having regrets, I hope,” he murmurs. Last night had been _good_. He hadn’t imagined Quentin’s reactions, how sweetly he had lost control of himself and how responsive he had been to Eliot’s touch.

Quentin frowns. “I'm, um,” he starts, in that nervous way of his. "I feel like I should apologize?"

Eliot feels a twinge of anxiety that perhaps Quentin had perceived the night differently. This isn’t a straight boy freak-out, is it? “For what?” he asks, trying not to sound nervous.

“Um, just…” Quentin looks at him, with those wide eyes that make Eliot melt. (Jesus, he has to get ahold of himself.) “You know. For being, uh, like… like that.”

Eliot furrows his brow. “What? Good in bed?” 

There’s sharp intake of breath. “Too needy,” he finishes awkwardly.

Eliot lets out a sigh. Is that all? Is this something his partners have complained about before? Because it is frankly criminal for Quentin's eager desperation in bed to go unappreciated. He’s about to reassure Quentin that he’d thoroughly enjoyed himself when Quentin groans again. “I can’t believe I told you guys that fucking movie theater story.”

A laugh startles out of him. “Oh my god, yeah.” It had been so unexpected. He’s been embarrassingly taken with Quentin from the beginning, but he was sure he was straight. The most he’d expected was maybe some bi-curious experimentation, if he was lucky. His feelings were much easier to manage if everything remained firmly in the realm of harmless teasing. It was fun to flirt with straight boys, especially someone like Quentin, who was so easy to fluster. In retrospect, some of his reactions may have been misinterpreted on Eliot’s part.

“You can’t tell anyone,” Quentin says. “Please?” 

The ‘please’ hits him with a wave of heat, but he answers coolly, “It’s a very funny story, so I think that’s a shame, but fine.” He meets Quentin’s eye. “Your secret is safe with me.”

Quentin relaxes into the bed. “Thanks.”

It is a  _problem_ how endeared he is right now, but he shoves down his feelings in favor of his dick. "You know," he murmurs, trailing a finger down Quentin's arm, “I’m a little disappointed I didn’t get to fuck you last night.”

A blush blooms on Quentin’s face. “Mmm, me too.” He bites back a smile. “Maybe—”

Whatever thought he'd been about to voice is interrupted by the door swinging open with a clack against the wall, he is going to kill Margo.

"Morning," she sing songs, stepping into the room, already immaculately put together. What time is it, anyway?

"Don't you ever knock?" Eliot says, sitting up and throwing a pillow at her.

"I was hoping to get an eyeful, is that a crime?" She throws the pillow back at him. "I've got a theory that Q's got a hot little body underneath the depressing flannels and hoodies."

Eliot hums in agreement. "He does have a very nice body, a pleasant surprise for sure." 

"I'm right here," Quentin grouses.

"Yes," Eliot says, looking down at him with a lascivious grin. "There you are."

"Please, if you wanna fuck, don't hold back on my account," Margo says, taking a seat on the bed. "I'm just here to remind you that you've got that assignment due for Lipson. Last night you said you would do it in the morning."

Right. Shit. Why did he always do this to himself? Last night had been so fun and all thoughts of responsibilities had flown out of his mind. Teaming up with Margo to push Quentin past the edge of embarrassment had been a wonderful idea. He wonders if Quentin has a humiliation kink because that opens up some interesting possibilities...

"Time 's it?" Quentin mutters. 

"Eight-thirty," Margo answers.

He groans. "Fuck, I have class in half an hour." 

"You better get ready, then," Margo says.

The moment stretches out and Quentin looks expectant. "Um, are you going to leave so I can get up?"

It honestly hadn't occurred to Eliot that Quentin might not be comfortable with her being here, and he really should intervene, but the way Quentin's squirming under her assessing gaze is doing things for him. 

"Oh no, I'm fine," Margo replies with a sweet smile.

"But I—you, um," Quentin sputters. 

"Bambi has rights," Eliot points out.

"I have rights."

Quentin bites his lip, looking between them as if hoping one of them will take pity. When neither of them does, he says with a petulant huff, "Fine. I'll just live in this bed then." 

"Alright by me," Eliot says with a smile, sinking into the bed and grabbing at his ass.

"You guys are terrible," he whines, burying his head under the covers while Eliot and Margo both laugh at him. 

"We should be nice to him," he says when Quentin doesn't make any moves to leave the bed. "I think we embarrassed him enough last night. Let's let him have some dignity."

"Alright," she agrees, standing up and grabbing a robe for him. After she hands it over, she turns and faces the wall. Quentin doesn't seem too sure that she's not going to try to steal a peek, but her eyes remain firmly averted as he shrugs on the robe and goes to retrieve his clothes off the floor. 

"Do you think Lipson would give me an extension?" Eliot asks her as Quentin gets dressed.

Margo laughs. "For what? Being too horny to do the assignment on time?"

"I was thinking I would phrase my excuse a little differently…"

"No," she answers. "You've got three hours, you'll be fine."

The last thing he wants to do is write a paper, even though she's right that it won't actually take that long. 

Quentin clears his throat and they both turn to look at him. Dressed in yesterday's clothes and hair rumpled from sex, he looks well-fucked. Eliot feels a twinge of disappointment that he probably has enough time to shower and change before class. "Um," he says. "I guess I'll, uh, see you guys later, then?"

"Of course," he answers with an easy grin.

"Bye, Q," she says, waving at him.

"Um, good luck with your paper," he says as he slinks out the door.

As soon as it's shut, Margo turns to him with an eyebrow raised. “I can’t believe he told you that awful movie theater story and your immediate response was, ‘oh, he likes guys, time to make my move.’” 

Eliot gives her a withering look. “Bambi, I know you can believe it. In fact you explicitly expected it of me.”

She crawls forward onto the bed and pats his arm. “True. But it’s embarrassing for you.”

“Yes. Well.”

She considers him. “You really like this nerd. He good in bed?”

His mind goes back to last night, to Quentin's eager enthusiasm to please, how goddamn _pliant_ he got when Eliot was fingering him. He clearly knew his own ass since he was able to dry come multiple times without a hand on his dick. The soft, desperate little noises he had made, _god_ , Eliot needed to find out what sort of mess he would become while being properly fucked.

“Damn, that good, huh?”

“Shut up.”

**Author's Note:**

> Unfortunately, I can't take credit for the line ["you had me at 'come on guys.'"](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=INI7Pwg8Cjs&feature=youtu.be&t=407)
> 
> This is my first fic in a really long time, hope y'all enjoy! I'm considering writing another chapter or two for this, we'll see.


End file.
